


Faulty Forever

by Oaklin



Series: Forever Everything [15]
Category: International Wrestling Syndicate, Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Angst, Kayfabe Compliant, M/M, Swearing, aggressive affection, also Kevin is really crude, and they are disgusting sometimes, because it's a locker room full of wrestlers, blasphemy?, descriptions of semi gross things, im learning to use tags correctly, not that that is new or anything, obligatory Kevin Steen warning, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 09:43:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8051491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oaklin/pseuds/Oaklin
Summary: baby!Steen fights for a prize and loses.
Then loses some more.
Then maybe gains something.
(not really)





	Faulty Forever

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello!
> 
> Okay, so this is sloppy and short (heh) because this week has not been kind to me (incidentally, if I disappear at any time in the future, worry not. I'll be back at some point, but life is being a real bitch right now) Hopefully next week should be better but I wouldn't count on it.
> 
> Regardless, here we are, with a new installment of this hot mess. I did warn you all last time that we were headed into semi-real life events. No promises about how accurate they will be, as I REALLY don't remember much about this particular time period, besides the big stuff (in this case, Kevin's 2/3 falls match with Pierre at Know Your Enemies(?))
> 
> I don't really have anything else to prattle on about, so enjoy ^.^

- _so this is going swell_ -

(No.)

Kevin slams face first into the turnbuckle with a ragged sound that is not quite a gasp-

(he doesn’t **even** have enough air for anything resembling an exhale)

-and gathers his wits together long enough to grasp the ropes, preventing himself from bouncing off the post and backwards into whatever finisher Pierre has planned. Digging his fingers into the ropes, Kevin tries to breath through the vicious cacophony of violence and desperation, swaying on the spot to the tune of the intoxicated roar permeating the air around them.

- _no, **seriously**. this is going **great**. i didn’t think it was **possible** to **miss** a **chop**_ -

(shut up)

Kevin desperately tries to suck in some air through clenched teeth, his ribs aching and his muscles stiff.

(god it _hurts_ to **breath** )

- _yeah, that tends to happen when Pierre slams some **dumbfuck** into the **ringpost**_ -

Kevin's arms tremble with the strain of keeping him upright, his body sending all sorts of confusing signals everywhere and his mind clouded with adrenaline and - ** _need_** -

shit.

(this is not going well)

- _you **think**?_ -

(fuck _you_ )

- _how about we **don't** piss him off next time?_ -

“It's not _my_ fucking fault you didn't **dodge** the elbow _Pierre_!" Kevin snarls, before jerking his tired body backwards, pulling himself out of the way at the last possible second.

Just in time too, as two hundred and fifty pounds of passive-aggressive disapproval slam into the space Kevin had just been standing in.

- _somehow, i **doubt** he is being **passive aggressive**_ -

(can't just _tell_ me that he took issue with the damn broken nose-)

Pierre turns, eyes glazed over with that particularly calm, collected coolness that always makes Kevin slightly-

(it's **off putting** , okay? doesn't he... **_feel_ **_anything?_ )

- _unnerved_. Pierre cocks his head, dragging a boot along the mat and jerking his chin in Kevin's direction, a challenge in his eyes.

“As both yourself and I know, this has nothing to do with the state of my precious face." Pierre runs a finger along the bandages on his nose, before abruptly launching himself forward, slamming into Kevin like a ton of bricks.

Kevin was ready though-

(idiot. I'm not _that_ fucking stupid)

-and turns into it, shifting his weight and meeting Pierre blow for blow.

(see? this isn't so bad. _maybe_ -)

Pierre, it seems, is **also** not stupid. He goes to clock Kevin, but changes his whole stance mid movement, grabbing Kevin's arm by the elbow and pulling him in.

Caught off guard, Kevin chokes into Pierre's headlock, struggling to breath, lungs still not recovered from their intimate acquaintance with the turnbuckle only moments ago.

- _maybe **what** now?_ -

fuck

Kevin's muscles shriek in protest as he tries to fight out of it-

- _fuck fuck fuck **fuck**_ -

-but Pierre is _strong_ , maybe even **stronger** than...

- _ **son** of a **bitch**_ -

Kevin twists, sinking a fist into Pierre's junk with a desperate burst of energy, hoping his own broad back shields the movement from the refs nosy, beady little eyes.

(not like _Pierre's_ noble ass will tell)

Pierre backs away hissing and Kevin pulls himself out of the vice-like grip, staggering away from Pierre, gasping for air and struggling to think properly through the oxygen deprivation. Pierre glares at him from across the ring, the ref gesticulating wildly about something and Pierre ignoring him entirely in favor of staring a hole in Kevin's skull.

- _ **somehow** , I don't think Pierre is gonna keep his filthy mouth shut because of **chivalry**_ -

Kevin meets Pierre's gaze, finally having recovered somewhat, clenching his fists and tensing up at the smoldering accusations in Pierre's eyes.

- _well, it **might** have **something** to do with **chivalry** , but not for **you**_ -

(it's not _even_...)

shit.

- _who the **fuck** does he **think** he is, anyway? **not** his. **never** his_ -

( _not_ **mine** either)

- ** _fuck you_** -

Pierre takes a few steps forward as Kevin stalls in the corner, his eyes trained on Kevin with unwavering, laser precision. “Kevin, this is a _wrestling_ match. A wrestling match for a **title** you _said_ you **_wanted_**.”

Kevin glares at Pierre before turning slightly so he can watch the other wrestler closely, while also shifting away to tug experimentally on the ring ropes. Kevin frowns grimly as his arms scream in protest and his gut clenches unpleasantly at the sharp stabs of pain erupting from his tired legs.

(his muscles are _fucked_ )

(his knee is **super fucked** )

- _we're fucked **period**_ -

(this is **_bullshit_** )

“Now, why don't you come out of the corner, ‘Mr Wrestling', and show me what you are **made** of?"

There is a light that shines in Pierre’s eyes when he says it, like he is having just the best time, here in this ratty ring, with a uncooperative opponent, to the tune of a drunken crowd. Pierre stalks toward him, completely at _ease_ and at **home** and **_whole_** -

(not like he is being _torn apart_ from the **inside out** )

(or _missing_ some **vital part** of _**himself**_ )

(or **_aching_ ** for _home_ )

( ** _aching_ ** for **_everything_** )

- ** _forever_** -

fuck.

- _he is **way** more together_ -

(it's  _fine._ )

- _this doesn't even have anything to do with **him** and yet, you literally can't think of anything else. Pierre is going to **beat your ass**_ -

( _fuck_ it)

- ** _foolish_** -

(don’t be a chicken shit)

- _rather be a **live** coward than a **dead** hero_ -

( _i_ am **not** a _**hero**_ )

As Kevin moves forward to meet Pierre-

(might as well make it **worth** his while)

-he feels that _alien_ stab of unbridled, helpless **agony** as he **_realizes_**...

Fuck.

(I am going to _lose_ this **match** )

(He is **_better_** )

( _Stronger_ )

( **Faster** )

(Hits **_harder_** )

(I am going to _lose_ this **goddamn _match_** )

fuck

* * *

The locker room is louder than Kevin was prepared for though he does his best to ignore the noise as he plops down on an empty bench, a bit removed from the rest of the rabble. Grateful that for once the locker room was actually big enough for the lot of them, Kevin lets out a harsh breath, running a hand through his sweaty hair and wishing for a shower.

Glancing at the stalls, he notes that they are all occupied-

(one _very_ much so)

- _ew_ -

-unfortunately, so Kevin focuses his attention on more pressing things.

(like ignoring Pierre)

(who is moving across the locker room toward him)

(and who will turn the fuck back around and go back the way he came if he knows what is good for him)

- _sulking_ -

(shut **up** )

Pierre doesn't turn around though. He keeps walking, moving slowly across the locker room toward Kevin, fist bumping random wrestlers and getting clapped on the back as he goes. Moving steadily, Pierre stops right in front of Kevin, gazing down at him with what almost looks like fondness.

(well, it would look like fondness if Kevin didn't know any better, at least)

- _oh the cynicism_ -

“Can I help you Pierre?" Kevin asks, glancing sideways up at the other man as he strips tape from his wrists, unwinding the sticky material as he observes the other man's vaguely amused expression.

Pierre says nothing for a moment, gazing down at Kevin with that odd, slightly-fond, slightly-mocking look in his eyes, staring steadily at Kevin for what feels like hours. Kevin finishes removing the tape and wads it up into a dirty, sweat slick ball before tossing it into the nearby trash can, smirking in silent victory when he gets it in on the first try.

Pierre is still staring at him wordlessly though and Kevin wants something to do with his hands so he doesn't-

(can Pierre just fucking _say_ something already? jesus **fucking** christ)

- _ **unnerved** again, are we?_ -

( **fuck** you)

So Kevin digs a stick of gum out of his bag, with a mind to chew it obnoxiously, perhaps slobber all over the place until Pierre either says what he walked over here-

- _from their **adorable** little **wrestling club** for **losers** over **there**_ -

-to say, or he leaves out of disgust.

- _ **everyone** leaves_ -

“Kevin, you don't have to flinch like that, we had our battle. I am not you, I do not carry business into the locker room." Pierre says, all _wise_ and **knowing** and full of **_poetic authority_** and shit.

Kevin just raises an eyebrow, shoving the stick of gum into his mouth and chewing leisurely, glancing around the locker room pointedly.

(not over ... ** _there_ ** though)

(because **_fuck_ ** that)

Pierre chuckles at that and instead of easing Kevin's roiling temper like he's heard laughter is **meant** to-

- _not **the** laughter_ -

-it just makes him want to punch Pierre right the fuck out, here in what is supposed to be the precious _safety_ of the locker room.

- _fuck them. they don't **deserve** to be **safe**. **take**_ -

“I think you've done your fair share of muddying the waters between _business_ and **pleasure** Pierre." Kevin growls, inhaling roughly and un-strapping his knee pads with excessive force.

Pierre makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, that infuriatingly amused look still in his eyes.

“Perhaps, if you want to look at it that way."

Kevin throws a hand full of leather and velcro in his bag, still glancing sideways at Pierre-

- _you always did have trouble looking at people like **him** directly_ -

Kevin tears the fabric of his other knee pad slightly as he yanks it from his body, not even really feeling the rush of relief as his skin is released from its chaffing prison.

( _not_ like **him** )

(at **_all_** )

“But, you do realize that I still consider you a friend, correct? Not _everything_ has to be an all or nothing scenario Kevin. We can go to war, but dine with each other when the battle has been fought and a victor determined. You don‘t have to act like you hate-”

Kevin throws the knee pad -torn fabric and all- into his bag, digging a palm into the abused skin of his aching knee and glancing up, giving Pierre an unimpressed look as he does so.

“You didn't come over here to chat about _friendship_ and **sunshi** -" Kevin inhales sharply, his visions swimming.

Grinding his teeth, Kevin snaps his head back and forth, immediately regretting the action, his brain furiously rebelling so violently that it almost makes him physically dizzy.

fuck

“- ** _all_ ** that other stupid shit did you?" he tries again, licking his lips and tugging the hem of his shirt down. “Because I could care less what you think about any of **_that_**.”

Kevin draws in a deep breath and finds he can’t look at Pierre at all anymore.

“Did you come over here to say anything worth while?" Kevin finishes weakly, making a vague gesture at his isolated little corner of the locker room and ignoring the little pin-pricks of _heat_ in the middle of his back that signify he is being watched.

(no.)

- _you know, you **could** just_ -

(No.)

Pierre looks skyward briefly-

- _ha! there is no **god** of man’s creation that can **save** **you** from **me**_ -

Before letting his eyes -still infuriatingly both amused and fond, much to Kevin’s eternal irritation- rest on Kevin again, letting out a long suffering sigh that makes Kevin want to _punch_ him until the skin of his own knuckles is **flayed** off.

“Kevin, must you make all things so difficult?" Pierre says wryly, with a touch of inexplicable sadness to his words that Kevin wonders at briefly before dismissing the curiosity.

Since Kevin doesn’t know what the hell Pierre is even on about, he shrugs halfheartedly at the other man, earning a vaguely disappointed look that Kevin huffs at before reaching over to zip his bag shut.

Pierre watches him for a moment before reaching out himself, clapping Kevin on the shoulder with an affection that makes Kevin’s gut twist painfully even as he pushes the feeling away.

“I just wanted to say, that that was a hell of a match. Thank you for the experience.” Pierre says, smiling at Kevin with that odd, out of place tinge of sadness in his eyes.

Kevin stands, the lump in his throat easing as the upward motion forces Pierre’s hand off his shoulder. Rolling his neck and trying to ignore the restless aggression still flowing through his veins-

(it’s usually _better_ after a match not **worse** )

-Kevin slings his bag over his shoulder and lets a smirk curl across his lips.

“No problem buddy, anytime." Kevin reaches out himself, clapping Pierre roughly on the back before heading for the door.

( _fuck_ taking a shower here)

- _rather shower in the fucking truck stop toilet than spend another minute **here**_ -

(understatement of the goddamn year-)

“Hey! If it isn’t the man of the hour himself! That match was phenomenal man!”

Kevin blinks, the smirk on his face falling away as he turns slightly, not able to help the incredulous snort escaping his lips at the sight coming toward him.

That scrawny blond bitch swaggers by him, smirking before he fucking _pats_ Kevin on the **shoulder** as he goes past.

(god, he is going to _tear_ that little piece of shit _limb_ from _limb_ with his bare fucking hands-)

Kevin clenches his teeth harshly as he watches the dumbfuck wave merrily at him, no doubt headed for the little corner of the indies finest sad sacks of shit, probably to kiss up to another pasty, useless piece of-

“You’re gonna have to show me how you do that moonsault so flawlessly sometime, yeah?”

- _god, no wonder they get along. they both **chirp** like the_ -

“Sure thing Beef.” Kevin says brightly, fingers stiff with pent up violence as he reaches out to pet the moron in question‘s head a bit before grabbing the door handle and yanking it open,“I’ll give you a first-hand, up close and personal demonstration, anytime you want.”

Kevin lets the door close on whatever that idiots response was, heading down the hall with a swiftness that feels like-

- _running away maybe?_ -

(it’s _called_ a tactical retreat and it is a perfectly **valid** strategy, thank you very **_fucking_ ** much)

- _could just go back in there and crush his head like a grape_ -

The cool night air doesn’t help his mood like he had hoped it would. Muttering, he throws his bag in the backseat and slides into the drivers seat, settling in to wait.

“If I kill him **_he_ ** will-” Kevin makes a face, rolling his neck and tapping his foot restlessly on the floorboard.

- _so **what**_ -

“Kevin? Are you okay?” a voice like a warm summer breeze invades Kevin’s thoughts, tossing him roughly back into the real world, where everything is shit and Kevin’s luck is the worst it can possibly be, at **_all_ ** times.

Kevin draws in a breath and doesn’t look over at the passengers side window.

“Get in the fucking car.”

**Author's Note:**

> Man, Kevin is done with _my_ shit. He was so pissed off there at the end there, you guys don't even know. I think I need to go have a lie down. I kinda regret deciding to even tackle the Beef stuff. Then again, I don't. You wanna talk about ridiculously over the top melodrama, you have not SEEN soap opera bullshit until you've seen the lead up to the tag match between Steenerico and- whatever Beef and Damien were calling themselves- at uh, Praise the Violence (I think) in 2006 (I think) Fucking bby!Wrestlers and their terrible break-up drama  <3
> 
> For the record, that ending was the way it was because I'm trying to make the whole "we've been best friends for 14 years" thing make sense. My working theory is that even when they were fighting in the early days, they still traveled together, because they are both massive cheap asses and it's not like character!Steen had anyone else he would be willing to travel with. It is _totally_ not just for story conveniences sake I swear.
> 
> (it's only like, 20% for story conveniences sake.)
> 
> Anywhoo, see you next week (maybe) <3


End file.
